Cold granite lm-1

by Stuart MacBride

  The PC finished his report and waited expectantly for DI Insch to stop chewing and say something.

  'Tell the teams to keep going for another hour. If we've not found anything by then we're calling it a day.' The inspector proffered the almost-empty bag of sweets and the PC took one, popping it into his mouth with obvious delight. 'No one can say we've not taken the search seriously.'

  'Yes, sir,' he mumbled, still eating.

  DI Insch dismissed the munching constable and beckoned Logan and WPC Watson over. 'Post mortem,' he said without preamble, listening to Logan's account of the desecration of David Reid's body in the exact same way he'd listened to the search team progress reports. Silent. Impassive. Stuffing his face. He finished off the cola bottles and brought out a packet of wine gums.

  'Wonderful,' he said when Logan had finished. 'So we've got a paedophile serial killer running around Aberdeen.'

  'Not necessarily,' said Watson, accepting a little orange lozenge with 'Sherry' embossed on the top. 'There's only one body, not a series, and the killer may not even be local…'

  Insch merely shook his head.

  Logan took a 'Port'.'The body lay undisturbed for three months. The killer even went back, long after rigor mortis had set in, and took a souvenir. He had to know his hiding place was safe. That screams "local". The fact that he came back and took a bit of the body means this is something special to him. Your man's not done this on a whim: he's been thinking about it for a long time. This is some sort of ritual fantasy he's acting out. He's going to do it again. If he hasn't already.'

  Insch agreed. 'I want all missing child reports for the last year pulled. Get the list up on the wall over there. Chances are some of them may have crossed this sick bastard's path.'

  'Yes, sir.'

  'Oh and, Logan,' said the DI, carefully folding the wine gum packet shut and stuffing it back in his pocket. 'I had a call from the Journal. They tell me you've been up there leaning on their new golden boy.'

  Logan nodded. 'Colin Miller: used to work on the Scottish Sun. He's the one that-'

  'Did I ask you to go antagonizing the newspapers, Sergeant?'

  Logan's mouth snapped shut. Pause. 'No, sir. We were in the neighbourhood and I thought-'

  'Sergeant,' said DI Insch, slowly and deliberately. 'I'm glad you're thinking. That's a good sign. Something I encourage in my officers.' There was a big 'but' coming: Logan could feel it. 'But I don't expect them to go off and annoy the local press without permission. We're going to have to put out appeals to the public. We're going to have to do damage limitation if someone screws something up in the investigation. We're going to need these people on our side.'

  'This morning you said-'

  'This morning I said I'd nail whoever spoke to the press. And I will. This is our screw-up, not the paper's. Understand?'

  He'd screwed up. WPC Watson suddenly took a great deal of interest in her shoes as Logan said, 'Yes, sir. Sorry, sir.'

  'OK.' Insch picked a sheet of paper off the desk and handed it to a suitably chastised Detective Sergeant McRae. 'The search teams haven't found a thing. Surprise, surprise. There's an underwater search unit doing the river, but the rain's made it almost impossible. The damn thing's already broken its banks in about a million places. We're lucky the body was found at all. Another couple of days and the river would've swamped the ditch and whoosh…' He swept his hand past, the fingertips sparkling with little grains of sugar from the cola bottles. 'David Reid's body would've been washed right out into the North Sea. Next stop Norway. We'd never have found it.'

  Logan tapped the post mortem report against his teeth, his eyes focused on a spot just above DI Insch's bald head. 'Maybe it's too much of a coincidence?' he said, frowning. 'David Reid's been lying there for three months, but if no one finds him before the river bursts its banks, he's never going to be found.' His eyes drifted back to the inspector. 'He gets swept out to sea and the story never hits the papers. No publicity. The killer can't read about his achievements. There's no feedback.'

  Insch nodded. 'Good thinking. Get someone to drag the finder…' He checked his notes. 'Mr Duncan Nicholson. Get him in here and give him a proper grilling, not the half-arsed one he got last night. If the man's got any skeletons in his closet I want to know about them.'

  'I'll get an area car to-' was as far as Logan got before the door to the incident room burst open and a breathless PC screeched to a halt.

  'Sir,' he said. 'Another kid's gone missing.'

  6

  Richard Erskine's mother was overweight, overwrought and not much more than a child herself. The lounge of her middle terrace house in Torry was packed with photos in little wooden frames, all showing the same thing: a grinning Richard Erskine. Five years old. Blond hair, squint teeth, dimpled cheeks, big glasses. The child's life was mapped out in the claustrophobic room, from birth right through to…Logan stopped that thought before it could go any further.

  The mother's name was Elisabeth: twenty-one, pretty enough if you ignored the swollen eyes, streaked mascara and bright red nose. Her long black hair was scraped back from her round face and she paced the room with frantic energy, eating her fingernails until the quicks bled.

  'He's got him, hasn't he?' she was saying, over and over again, her voice shrill and panicky. 'He's got Richie! He's got him and he's killed him!'

  Logan shook his head. 'Now we don't know that. Your son might just have forgotten the time.' He scanned the photograph-laden walls again, trying to find one in which the child looked genuinely happy. 'How long has he been missing?'

  She stopped pacing and stared at him. 'Three hours! I already told her that!' She flapped a chewed hand in WPC Watson's direction. 'He knows I worry about him! He wouldn't be late! He wouldn't.' Her bottom lip trembled and tears started to well up in her eyes again. 'Why aren't you out there finding him?'

  'We've got patrol cars and officers out there right now looking for your son, Mrs Erskine. Now I need you to tell me what happened this morning. When he went missing?'

  Mrs Erskine wiped her eyes and nose on the back of her sleeve. 'He was supposed…supposed to come straight back from the shops. Some milk and a packet of chocolate biscuits…He was supposed to come straight back!'

  She started to cross the lounge again, back and forth, back and forth.

  'Which shops did he go to?'

  'The ones on the other side of the school. It's not far! I don't normally let him go on his own, but I had to stay in!' She sniffed. 'The man was coming to fix the washing machine. They wouldn't give me a time! Just some time in the morning. I never would have let him out on his own otherwise!' She bit down on her lip and the sobbing intensified. 'It's all my fault!'

  'Have you got a friend or a neighbour who could stay with…'

  Watson pointed at the kitchen. A used-looking older woman emerged carrying a tray of tea things: two mugs only. The police weren't expected to stay for tea, they were expected to get out there and start looking for the missing five-year-old.

  'It's a disgrace, so it is,' said the older woman, putting the tea tray down on top of a pile of Cosmopolitans on the coffee table. 'Letting perverts like that run around! They should a' be in prison! It's no as if there's no one handy!' She was talking about Craiginches, the walled prison just around the corner from the house.

  Elisabeth Erskine accepted a mug of milky tea from her friend, shaking so much that the hot liquid slopped over the edge. She watched the drops seep into the pale blue carpet.

  'You, eh…' She stopped and sniffed. 'You don't have a cigarette on you, do you? I…I gave up when I got pregnant with Richie…'

  'Sorry,' said Logan. 'I had to give up too.' He turned and picked the most recent-looking photo off the mantelpiece. A serious little boy, staring at the camera. 'Can we take this with us?'

  She nodded and Logan handed it over to WPC Watson.

  Five minutes later they were standing in the small back garden, sheltering beneath a ridiculously little porch bolted on above
the back door. The tiny square of grass was disappearing under a spreading network of puddles. About a dozen child's toys were scattered about the place, the bright plastic shapes washed clean by the downpour. On the other side of the fence more houses stared back at him, grey and damp.

  Torry wasn't the worst bit of the city, but was in the top ten. This was where Aberdeen's fish processing factories were. Tons of white fish landed every week, all to be gutted and filleted by hand. Good money if you could handle the cold and the smell. Huge blue plastic bins of discarded fish guts and bones squatted on the roadside, the rain doing nothing to dissuade fat seagulls from swooping in to snatch a fish head or a beakful of innards.

  'What you think?' asked Watson, sticking her hands deep in her pockets, trying to keep warm.

  Logan shrugged, watching water overflowing the seat of a bright yellow digger. 'The house been searched?'

  Watson pulled out her notebook. 'We got the call at eleven oh five. Mother was hysterical. Control sent round a couple of uniforms from the local Torry stationhouse. First thing they did was go through the place with a fine-toothed comb. He's not hiding in the linen cupboard and his body's not been stashed in the fridge freezer.'

  'I see.' That digger was way too small for a five-year-old. In fact a lot of the toys looked as if they belonged in the age three-and-up bracket. Maybe Mrs Erskine didn't want her little baby growing up?

  'You think she killed him?' asked Watson, watching him stare out at the drenched garden.

  'No, not really. But if it turns out she has and we didn't look…the press would crucify us. What about the father?'

  ''Cording to the neighbour he's been dead since before the kid was born.'

  Logan nodded. That would explain why the woman was so overprotective. Didn't want her son going the same way as his father. 'So what's the state of the search?' he asked.

  'We've phoned his friends: no one's seen him since Sunday afternoon.'

  'What about his clothes, favourite teddy bear, that kind of thing?'

  'All present and accounted for. So he's probably not run away.'

  Logan gave the discarded toys one last look and went back into the house. The inspector would be here soon, looking for an update. 'Er…' He looked at Watson out of the corner of his eye as they walked through the kitchen and down the hallway towards the front door. 'You've worked with DI Insch before, right?'

  WPC Watson admitted that she had.

  'So what's with the-' Logan mimed stuffing his face with fizzy cola bottles. 'He trying to give up smoking?'

  Watson shrugged. 'Dunno, sir. Maybe it's some sort of obsessive compulsive disorder?' She paused, brow furrowed in thought. 'Or maybe he's just a big fat bastard.'

  Logan didn't know whether to laugh or look shocked.

  'Tell you one thing though, sir, he's a damn good policeman. And you don't fuck with him twice.'

  Somehow Logan had already come to that conclusion all on his own.

  'Right.' He stopped at the front door. The hallway was festooned with photographs, just like the lounge. 'Get that picture down to the nearest newsagents. We'll need about a hundred photocopies and-'

  'The local boys have already done it, sir. They've got four officers going door to door all along the route Richard would have taken to the shops, handing them out.'

  Logan was impressed. 'They don't hang about.'

  'No, sir.'

  'OK, let's get half a dozen uniform down here to give them a hand.' He pulled out his mobile phone and started dialling, his finger freezing over the last number. 'Oh, ho…'

  'Sir?'

  A flash-looking motor had pulled up at the kerb and out bustled a familiar, short figure, all wrapped up in a black overcoat, wrestling with a matching umbrella.

  'Looks like the vultures are circling already.'

  Logan grabbed a brolly from the hallway and stepped out into the rain. The icy water thrummed off the umbrella as he stood and waited for Colin Miller to climb the stairs.

  'Sergeant!' said Miller, smiling. 'Long time no see! You still carting that tasty…' The smile became even broader as he saw WPC Watson scowling from the doorway. 'Constable! We was just talking about you!'

  'What do you want?' Her voice was even colder than the grey afternoon.

  'Business before pleasure, eh?' Miller dug a fancy dictaphone out of his pocket and pointed it at them. 'You've got another missing kid. Are you-'

  Logan frowned. 'How did you know another child's gone missing?'

  Miller pointed out at the rain-soaked road. 'You've got patrol cars out broadcastin' the kid's description! How do you think I found out?'

  Logan tried not to look as embarrassed as he felt.

  Miller winked. 'Ah, don't worry about it. I make an arse of myself all the time, but.' He held the dictaphone up again. 'Now, is this disappearance connected to the recent discovery of-'

  'We have no comment to make at this time.'

  'Oh, come on!'

  Behind Miller another car had pulled up, this one with the BBC Scotland logo emblazoned down the side. The media were going to have a field day. Yesterday a little boy turned up dead, today another one had gone missing. They'd all be jumping to the same conclusion as Miller. He could see the headlines now: 'HAS PAEDOPHILE KILLER STRUCK AGAIN?' The Chief Constable would have a fit.

  Miller turned to see what Logan was staring at and froze. 'How about if-'

  'I'm sorry, Mr Miller. I can't give you any further details at this time. You'll just have to wait for the official statement.'

  He didn't have to wait long. Five minutes later DI Insch's mud-splattered Range Rover pulled up. By then a little cordon of newspaper and television people had appeared, forming a wall of microphones and lenses at the foot of the steps, huddling beneath large black umbrellas. Just like a funeral.

  Insch didn't bother getting out of his car, just wound down his window and waved Logan over. The cameras turned to watch Logan cross the road and stand in the rain beneath his borrowed umbrella by DI Insch's window, trying not to wince at the smell of wet spaniel that oozed out of the car's interior.

  'Aye, aye,' said the inspector, nodding towards the ring of cameras. 'Looks like we're going to be on the telly tonight.' He ran a hand over his bald head. 'Good job I remembered to wash my hair.'

  Logan forced a smile. The scars crisscrossing his stomach were starting to bother him as last night's punch in the guts made its presence felt.

  'Right,' said Insch. 'I've been authorized to release a statement to the media. Before I do, is there anything I need to know that's going to make me look like an arse here?'

  Logan shrugged. 'Far as we can tell the mother's being straight with us.'

  'But?'

  'Don't know. The mother treats the kid like he's made of glass. Doesn't get out on his own. All his toys are for a kid two years younger than he is. I get the feeling she's smothering the life out of him.'

  Insch raised an eyebrow, causing the pink, hairless skin of his head to wrinkle. He didn't speak.

  'I'm not saying he hasn't been snatched.' Logan shrugged. 'But still…'

  'Point taken,' said Insch, smoothing himself down. Unlike the filthy, smelly Range Rover he was immaculately turned out in his best suit and tie. 'But if we play this down, and he turns up all strangled with his willy cut off, we'll be up to our ears in shite.'

  Logan's phone went off in an explosion of beeps and whistles. It was the Queen Street station. They'd picked up Duncan Nicholson.

  'What…? No.' Logan smiled, the phone clamped to his ear. 'No, stick him in a detention room. Leave him there to sweat till I get there.' By the time Logan and WPC Watson got back to Force Headquarters a full-blown search was underway. DI Insch had more than trebled the six uniforms Logan had drafted in to help and now more than forty police men and women, four dog-handlers and their alsatians, were out in the freezing rain, searching every garden, public building, shed, bush and ditch between Richard Erskine's home and the shops on Victoria Road.

&n
bsp; The desk sergeant told them that Duncan Nicholson had been stuck in the mankiest detention room in the place. He'd been there for nearly an hour.

  Just to be on the safe side, Logan and WPC Watson stopped off at the canteen for a cup of tea and a bowl of soup. Lingering over the pea and ham while Nicholson sat in a room, all alone, and worried.

  'Right,' said Logan, when they'd finished. 'How'd you like to drag Mr Nicholson into an interview room? Give him the silent glower routine? I'll check up on the search and pop along in about, fifteen, twenty minutes. He should be bricking it by then.'

  Watson stood, cast one last longing look at the thick slices of sponge pudding and steaming yellow custard, and headed off to make Duncan Nicholson's life even more miserable.

  Logan got an update from the admin officer in the incident room: the search teams hadn't turned up anything and neither had the door-to-door interviews. So Logan grabbed a cup of tea from the machine in the hallway and drank it slowly, filling in the time. Then took another painkiller. When twenty minutes had elapsed he headed down to interview room two.

  It was small and utilitarian, done up in a nasty shade of beige. Duncan Nicholson sat at the table, opposite a silent, scowling, WPC Watson. He was looking very uncomfortable.

  The room was no smoking and Nicholson obviously had a problem with that. There was a pile of shredded paper on the table in front of him and as Logan entered Nicholson jumped, sending little scraps of white fluttering to the scuffed blue carpet.

  'Mr Nicholson,' said Logan, sinking down into the brown plastic chair next to Watson. 'Sorry to keep you waiting.'